Foreign Bodies

If the only gay Germans you've ever seen are the hotsy-totsy Nazis in The Producers, you need to go out more. Or maybe stay home more and take a look at Among Men, a/k/a Unter Männern (All Worlds Video), the German porno flick that's every bit as fascinatingly arty as anything by Fassbinder or Doris Dörrie. This one is so thick with attitude and snooty camera angles you expect it to be heading right to Lincoln Plaza, but all that technique happens to be lavished on a wienerfest that's best played in your living room theater. As minimal electronic music right out of Sprockets pulses into your noggin, a bunch of tight, wiry guys with leather armbands and tattoos proceed to do and outdo each other until they practically Berlin Alexander-plotz. If someone is artfully draped on a divan, with his business hanging outand someone isyou can just bet another Frankfurt-er will waltz in and promptly go for the foot-long. But mostly these guys are masters at taunting each other with their schlongs, making a three-act ballet out of serving the meat before devilishly pulling it away, then just plain ramming it up every available hole in sight. Bravo, mein herrs!

Renaissance men that they are, the studs also dabble in butt-slapping, belt-whipping, nipple-pulling, ball torture, and big black dildos. And they all simply adore cumming on each other's faces, one of them cutely licking his own load off a partner's aquiline features like a German shepherd in heat. The dialogue at the beginning and the end of the flick is in German, by the way, andmaking things even more mystique-drenchedit's not even subtitled! As for everything in between, it's the perfect raunchy excuse to get some sauce out of your schnitzel.

Yet more foreign meat is served in Latin Heat Inn Exile (Vivid Interactive), which may sound semi-illiterate, but it isn't, papithe action takes place at a Costa Rican getaway called the Inn Exile (though, adorably enough, the flick was actually shot in Palm Springs). The plot has a half-naked smuggling ring trying to move some mysterious horse-head statues filled with "white gold" across the border, and all the sexual favors involved in either making it happen or making sure it doesn't happen. It's cute that the filmmakers have worked up such an elaborate framework around all the usual pinga pyrotechnics, but it becomes largely irrelevant as things drag on and on. The real fun is the chance to see the inn-mates, pool boys, and law-enforcement officers doing it in and around the smutty resort's various recreational areas. Among the cast members, a spunky waif named Stonie is quite delightful in a supporting cocksucking role, and as the smuggling point man, Max Grand is so hot I'd take his statue anywhere he likes.

One of the stars of Phil St. John's Getting It at the Rave (Pacific Sun Entertainment, Inc.) is named Hansand he uses his wellbut the main foreign bodies here are the "energy pills" that enable all the circle jerks, orgies, and double-penetration scenes to rage all night. Goshers, if I had any idea all this stuff happens at raves, I would have thrown on an appropriate outfit and run there aeons ago to take it off! (After coming back from my vacation in Costa Rica, of course.) According to this Ecstasy epic, no dancing goes on at all, just chowing and plowing in brightly lit side rooms, and I have no reason whatsoever to believe that's not true. The story? Two roommates who pretend to be straight end up at the West Valley Soccer Rave, where hundreds of balls (and I'm not talking about soccer) bang into their faces till closing time. One of the guys, played by the aforementioned imp Hans Ebson, is mercilessly fucked in the van that takes them to the rave, and laterat the actual eventhe becomes the center of a sexual sandwich between the bartender and everyone on the guest list. (Don't squirm; watching partygoers get down in zebra-print vests and raccoon-eyed makeup ends up being much more arousing than you'd think.)

The dots and spirals of the set provide a trippy backdrop for the nonstop fruity fireworks, and it turns out no one lounges in the club's loungesthey're too busy taking it up the ass. By the end, Ebson and the roommate (the blond, studly Billy Brandt) have fucked everyone except each other, but fear notthey've saved that kinky combo for last, with Ebson getting butt-clogged once again while tied up in string back at home. A little more dialogue would have made the scene hotterI don't know, something like, "I've wanted your glowstick for so long!"but when you watch the DVD's "naked interviews" with the stars (a bonus feature), you might actually crave less dialogue. "I'm not a god," the self-satisfied Brandt announces, as if he expects you to spit out your eggnog and screech, "You're joking!"

The cast of First Experiences (Pacific Sun Entertainment, Inc.) must be kidding about their cherry-popping entrées into gay sex; when they flashback to the actual encounters, you can see that none of the deflowerees put up any resistance whatsoever, and no one seems to have had the least bit of trouble deep-throating dicks or having them slide right up their butts. That's when I realizedduhthat these are actors pretending to be describing their first experiences. (Hey, I'm the one who thought Little House on the Prairie was a documentary, and I'm currently convinced Martin Sheen is actually the Prez. Hope springs eternal.)

Still, the movie's a scorcher, with scenes ranging from an intergenerational (but legal) encounter in a shower to a computer hookup that culminates with two boyfriends romancing a third who wittily calls himself Virgin Top. The flick ends with all the friends getting so hot and bothered by all the talk about their first experiences that they launch into a four-way daisy chain of cocksucking and cornholing. It's so well orchestrated that you'd swear the film is foreign, not from Van Nuys!